


Duty and Promise

by MayukoMorita



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Divine Cassandra Pentaghast, Domestic, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I am Anti-Circle but this fic contains some Templar Apologist Rhetoric, Inquisition Disbanded, Jaws of Hakkon mentioned, Lavellan is referred to by the name I gave her, Not Beta Read, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Survivor Guilt, is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27712738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayukoMorita/pseuds/MayukoMorita
Summary: When a former templar and an Inquisitor retire, it is not a simple matter of laying down swords and setting aside armor. It involves healing and forgiveness, too--things that Cullen And Vadania might not be very good at.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 18





	Duty and Promise

**Author's Note:**

> This fic reflects the narrative and character decisions I made--most notably Divine Cassandra, disbanding the Inquisition, and redeeming Solas.  
> At the Epilogue of Trespasser, I always thought it weird that Cullen establishing the sanctuary for recovering lyrium addicts only comes up if you don't romance/marry him. Like, I figured him doing it with the support of his loving spouse would be a nice way to cap that romance.  
> That being said, here he still sets up the sanctuary and Inqui helps him run it.

Cullen makes his way to his study where a list of new residents and their accommodations waits for his review. The cottages are filling up and he contemplates the feasibility of constructing more. Food is hardly an issue since the sanctuary is able to maintain a small farm and a few trees that comprise an orchard. The dog bed in the study is empty. Haven must be with Vadania.

It’s been two years since Cassandra—Divine Victoria—(he wonders when they will all stop making that mistake; not that Cassandra corrects them) granted him the piece of land where he, his wife, and a dedicated team of staff care for templars wishing to end their dependence on lyrium. They had decided to name the estate _Duty’s Rest_ ; Vadania’s idea. She said it was the place where they could let go of the burden of duty and order, where they could reclaim the parts of themselves that they had lost to lyrium and the Order. Cullen liked the idea of it. He doubts a templar could ever completely unlearn the destructive denial of self that the Order had hammered into them, but it is a nice sentiment, a goal to aspire to.

He looks at the list. Ten new residents. He notes that they are getting close to a hundred now, and smiles sadly. To be able to help this many people is hardly a terrible thing. But to know that this many of them, and perhaps more, need the kind of help he can offer is a sobering thought. It is never easy to admit that something he almost gave his life to caused so much pain. Even when he himself had gone through—is going through—the same pain.

He puts the list down. He will go to meet the new residents with Vadania later in the afternoon. The idea of a mage marrying a templar is controversial, but not something they’ve never heard of in apocryphal gossip. Which always makes it amusing when these former templars find out that their patron is married to one, and that she is actively helping them, too. Of course, the initial surprise is quickly followed by a cocktail of guilt, shame, and resistance. There is hardly a newcomer who does not respond with awkward courtesy to “… and my wife, Inquisitor Emeritus Vadania Lavellan-Rutherford. A Dalish mage.” But it is the beauty of this place that they are allowed to shed their guilt, shame, and resistance. And they fall in love with her, just as Cullen has. She makes it very easy, anyway.

He looks out the window. His study has a wonderful view of the garden. At first it only had herbs of the medicinal variety. The complications of lyrium withdrawal and the pains caused by its prolonged use necessitated as much. Vadania shared her knowledge of Dalish healing to the other resident alchemists; she also chiefly tended to the herb garden. Before long she suggested that they plant flowers, too. Cullen liked the idea. When they bloomed in the spring, with crystal graces (Vadania’s favorite) as the main attraction, he realized what his wife’s intention had been. The herbs were useful, but it reminded the former templars too much of why they were here—because they were damaged, because the Order had damaged them. The flowers were there to tell them that the things they have done and the things done to them had not rid the world of all its beauty. And they are still allowed to see that.

Cullen sees Vadania taking her midmorning walk. Had he not had work to attend to, he would be with her, as is their routine after breakfast. Haven, his mabari, is with her, as he had thought. They had agreed on the name to commemorate the birth of the Inquisition. And to remember the place where they met. She is playing fetch with him. He kept trying to teach him to dodge balls, not catch them. To no avail. “That is not how this works!” she had said once, finally. Her exasperation was pretend, but his was not.

Vadania. Two years married. And almost five in love. He would keep asserting that he has been in love with her for five years, having loved her the moment they met. She kept refuting him. She never believed it. He stopped protesting, but still he knew. He loved her the moment he saw her close the rift that nearly killed his soldiers. He loved her when he saw her risk her life to march with the soldiers on the mountain despite being falsely accused by the same people. And when he saw her determination to save the Inquisition at Haven, he knew he would give anything to keep her alive, to protect her. It was just rather unfortunate that she thought the same about him.

Being in love with a hero is excruciating. Though she would never let him or anyone call her that. “I only did what must be done. No more,” she would always say. Yet how do you keep someone alive when she is always prepared to lay her life down for others? The left sleeve of her dress, folded at the elbow, is Cullen’s constant reminder of that riddle he must spend his whole life trying to answer.

He puts his papers down—he will discuss them with the chief caretaker later—and makes his way to the garden.

* * *

Dorian had come for a short visit some months past. His roundtrip voyage had taken longer than his stay at the estate, but his presence still made Vadania smile just a little bit more and her laughter a tad more vibrant. He told them all about the troubles and surprising joys of being the figurehead of a minority party in the Magisterium, all while keeping a relationship with an infamous mercenary leader secret (as secret as someone like Iron Bull can be kept). He then promptly lamented (partly with jealousy) at the quiet country life the former Inquisitor and her husband had found themselves in.

“I swear to the Maker, Cullen,” he warned, “if you turn my dear sweet friend into a boring housewife, I shall take her from you and bring her to the Imperium where she can have fun.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Dorian,” Vadania answered instead, “I’m still far from boring. Every day, I still make it a point to read for at least two hours before I spend the afternoon making potions and salves, and later to be entreated to a quiet dinner with my husband. It’s all very exciting.”

“Then I have come too late. There is no saving you.” But Dorian was smiling when he said that.

There is very little else Cullen could ask for besides the “boring” life he and Vadania have been sharing for the past two years. After the Order and the Inquisition, it was a wonder to him that he still found the capacity to settle down. And Maker knows it’s what Vadania deserves. The least of it, really.

Haven nearly topples her when he rushes back with the ball in his mouth.

“Such a good boy,” she says, scratching the mabari’s thick neck with both hands, before throwing the ball again.

“He will never learn to dodge it if you keep encouraging him to fetch it.” At this point he has come to accept it, though. This token resistance has become somewhat of a joke only the two of them share.

“Finished with work already, my love?” She ignores his question, as part of the joke, and kisses him.

“No, but I was already missing you,” he replies. It was true.

“How lucky,” she says as she takes his hand, “So did I.”

* * *

Now she is Lady Vadania Lavellan-Rutherford, a comtesse in Kirkwall and Mistress of _Duty’s Rest_. Five years prior, she was just Vadania of Clan Lavellan. An orphan lucky to be picked as Keeper Deshanna’s First. Not as lucky to be sent to the Conclave where she was arrested for something she did not do (but, somehow, did cause). But, luckily or unluckily (depending on who one asks), as a result of certain events following such, eventually became Inquisitor Lavellan. The first Inquisitor in eight hundred years since the last.

The Inquisitor. The hero who vanquished Corypheus. She who closed the breach and healed the sky. She let the common people call her that, knowing they did not really see _her_ , but instead saw a symbol, a promise that wrongs can be put to right. She let them call her that because she knew they needed to.

But with her people, the Inner Circle who knew most intimately the difficult decisions that heroes make, she refused to be seen as such. She tried to set things right, they all did. But sometimes and soon enough, all Vadania saw was blood and shadows. Unfortunate consequences. Collateral damage. The people she could not save.

In many ways, ending the Inquisition was a mercy. Though she continues to mourn the demise of that great thing her friends had built and gifted to her, some gifts weigh heavier than others. Eventually, it proved too heavy, even with all the people who helped ease the burden. Leliana used to tell her that everyone has blood in their hands, that no one is spared of guilt, and that everyone who joined the Inquisition knew that. But only one of them was hailed and celebrated as a hero for it. “I only did what I had to,” she repeated to herself and to anyone who asked; whether in humility or remorse or justification, eventually she stopped trying to acertain.

There were messages Cullen needed to attend to, so she walks the gardens alone this morning with her husband’s promise to join her as soon as he is finished in place of said husband. When Haven, having been let out of his kennel after his own morning meal, nearly knocks her over in greeting, Vadania finds she won’t be completely alone after all.

The mass of muscle and affection that came to be known as Haven came to Cullen’s, and by affinity Vadania’s, life during the Exalted Council. It was then when Vadania first felt the curious sensation of being both relieved and anguished at the thought of losing something that had become a part of her, as unwieldly as it had become. And then Solas lopped her arm, and the Anchor with it, off. The Exalted Council heralded the end of many things for the Herald. The Inquisition sheathed their swords, as she had promised. And she shed the armor that had become her second skin. She had worn it, sometimes with grace, most of the time clumsily, in her short term as the Inquisitor. And like a second skin, it clung at her so that removing it became short of tearing herself. But after losing everything that made her the Inquisitor, she was finally just Vadania again. As the Exalted Council ended, Vadania was ready to begin again.

She and Cullen wed before all the sordid business of negotiations and betrayals by trusted friends. But she likes to think that it was just-Vadania who married him then. It is certainly just-Vadania who is married to him right now (token titles in Kirkwall notwithstanding). And the thought makes her happy.

Haven brings her his toy and spins in his place, begging her to throw it. Vadania obliges. She still wonders where Cullen got the idea of playing “dodge” with a dog. Still, it is a fun thing to tease him with, even long after he had stopped insisting on it.

They had made promises to love each other for the rest of their lives in front of Mother Giselle. A trifling formality. The more important promises they had already made to each other long before marriage entered their minds. They were in bed up in her tower in Skyhold, the light of the moon splintering through the Dalish patterns on her windows, coloring her skin and his. They had stopped trying to be secretive with their relationship after the Nightmare in the Fade. Coming face to face with death always brought one to the unending truth of the brevity of life. But something about walking the Fade wide awake and seeing firsthand all the fears that fell to her hands as the Inquisitor to fight made Vadania realize that she and Cullen did not have the luxury of time. She could be taken from him at any moment, and she would not let it be before he and the rest of the world knew how much she loved him. She had just finished helping him with the oils that eased the pain in his joints. The scent of them soothed her anxious mind as the coolness relieved him of discomfort.

She took his hand and kissed the back of it, which still smelled of elderflower and oakmoss. “You and I,” she whispered, “We’ll take care of each other, won’t we?”

In response, he kissed her forehead. “We will.”

She is lost in thought, so she hardly notices Haven run back with his ball. She nearly falls over when the excited mabari aggressively presents his catch to her face. Fortunately, Haven is big enough and heavy enough for Vadania to be able to catch herself by holding on to him. From there it is an easy transition to his favored neck scratches, a praise she gives as if she is speaking to an infant, and throwing the ball again.

“He will never learn to dodge it if you keep encouraging him to fetch it.” Cullen’s protest is purely pretend now. She smiles at the joke they have made just for the two of them.

“Finished with work already, my love?” She knows he isn’t, but is happy he has arrived to rescue her from her thoughts.

He takes his place on her right and she takes his hand.

* * *

Inquisitor Ameridan, the last one before they had declared their own, had been an elf and a mage. Jospehine and Leliana immediately went over the ways they could transubstantiate this information into leverage. Cullen bristled at the irony of the great grandfather of the Templar Order being a mage. Vadania had decreed that reparations to Ameridan’s clan be done first before they go back to any scheming.

Cullen had realized very soon after their first chess match that the Inquisitor was always letting him win. He found it patronizing at first, until it crossed him that she was more concerned about telling him of the scar on her knee from when she first tried and failed to ride a halla than she was about properly placing her knight. After that, he found as much joy in winning as he did in hearing about the Inquisitor’s childhood. Then after that, he had stopped caring about where he or she placed their pawns when she asked him about summers in Honnleath. He still kept winning, though.

In a match they had one afternoon after the close of her jaunt in the Frostback Basin, however, Vadania had been making her same half-thought moves but without the corresponding chatter. It was then that Cullen realized that nobody had actually asked her about what she thought of meeting her predecessor. Indeed, discovering him locked in time magic after eight hundred years and poring over the implications and repercussions of such a discovery had already been too much just to talk about, let alone to strategize over. The Inquisitor’s thoughts had been inquired upon for every decision related to this matter. But, Cullen realized with some self-reproach, no one is yet to ask her how she _felt_.

And he was at a loss. Between the two of them, she had always been better at coaxing the difficult things out. He ventured an attempt. “It must have been…,” what is the right word? “… overwhelming to have spoken to what we all thought was a legend.”

She made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a sigh. “You don’t know the half of it.” She smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes as she moved her bishop to a square where his knight could easily capture it. “He did give me advice, though.”

“Was it good advice?”

“I don’t know…”, she hesitated. “He said ‘Take moments of happiness where you find them. The world will take the rest.’”

The question selfishly formed in his mind before he can stop it. _Does what we have give you happiness? Or do I take from you as well?_ But he banished the thought and tried to find something else to say.

She beat him to it. “If he thought his Orlais was demanding, he should see ours.”

With that jest, Cullen had lost his moment.

* * *

_Duty’s Rest_ is nestled halfway between Lothering and South Reach, at the foot of the Southron Hills. Far, far away, Cullen hopes, from any politicking or world-saving affair that would need him and Vadania. The promise he made in the chapel of Skyhold on the eve of their final battle was one he intended to keep. Southern Thedas continues to prove itself a choleric toddler, but Cullen will keep this little slice of peace for him and his wife for as long as he can. Here the first decision Vadania makes in the morning is which flower she wants her dress to look like; not which count to unseat and how many soldiers to transfer. Cullen intends to keep it that way.

They greet the new residents, as he planned. As always, there is the same surprise at realizing that the two of them are, indeed, married; the same guilt, shame, and resistance. Her same smile, knowing that she will wear them down with her love and compassion, as she has always done where it is possible. As she had done for him when he thought it was too much to ask. He bids them _good evening_ and they call him “Commander” out of habit. He tries not to wince and reminds them that here that word bears no meaning. She wishes them a pleasant supper, and they make their way back to their own cottage (a euphemism for the small but well-furnished manse that Cassandra insisted be built for them). The late afternoon breeze carries the scent of healing herbs and bright blossoms, and dinner being prepared. Haven had run far ahead of them, barking, calling for his kennel master, the smell of his human’s meal exciting him for his own.

“We are nearing a hundred, could you believe?” He tells her.

“You are doing something truly good.” She kisses his shoulder, the most she can reach when they stand abreast. “And to be able to help more is always good.”

“I do only what must be done. As you always say,” he says, half-teasing. He appends with a kiss to her knuckle. “And only because you help me.”

It is a sentiment that no reply could do justice, so she says nothing and merely smiles. It is a testament to her modesty that after two years married and hearing the same phrase countless times, she still manages to smile shyly and reproachingly at him when he says that.

Mia and Rosalie had visited them once and remarked on how lovely the garden is. Vadania with her herbalists and alchemists had intended for it to serve its practical purpose, but also to be a place of leisure where the recovering ex-templars could sit meditatively or take their recreational strolls. The varieties of elfroot, spindleweed, rashvine, embrium, and elder plants made a pleasant backdrop for their more aesthetically purposed cousins. Rows of crystal graces (which, to its credit, has some medicinal use as well), lilies, daisies, roses, and scattered exotic blooms that Josephine and Dorian send them every now and then line the carefully tiled pathways and archways that make the garden a pretty maze to get lost in. If Vadania had meant for the garden to surmise the purpose of their sanctuary—a place to heal and hope—then she had met her object beautifully.

But of course, a garden for Ser and Lady Lavellan-Rutherford is not complete without a chess table. The sun has begun making its way down the horizon, but still giving ample light for a quick match, Cullen suggests. And Vadania agrees that it is as good a way to pass the time as any while they wait for the kitchen to finish preparing dinner.

“It’s been a while since we’ve been to South Reach,” she says as she absentmindedly moves her pieces. “I do miss Branson’s children.”

“Well I…” He pauses to consider whether to respond to her easy bait or to prolong the match just a little bit. “… do not miss Rosalie’s fiancé.”

“Stop that. He makes your sister happy.”

“Yes. That’s what worries me.”

She laughs despite herself and tries to admonish him more on the matter.

And Cullen knows he would give anything to see that laugh every single day until he dies. He also knows just as well how fragile it is. In certain ways, they both are.

They had built _Duty’s Rest_ as the place where people could let go of the burden of duty and order; where they could reclaim the parts of themselves that they had lost. But for all those they had helped in this, the one person who needed to do it most could not find herself able to do it. Vadania had taken so well—too well—to her short-lived role as Inquisitor. She had even relinquished it thinking not only of herself, but also of those whose burdens she wished to relieve. Cullen knew this; and Cullen knew she did it for him as well.

They had built for themselves a sanctuary of peace, healing, and forgiveness. But these things are never straightforward. Some wounds take more to heal, and still scar forever. Some things they will always carry with them, like bees hovering over a favored flower. This is something Cullen had accepted for himself; his burdens push him forward. But how can he accept this for Vadania, when she hadn’t done half the terrible things he’s done and did twice the good he did?

“What are you thinking, darling?”

Had he been staring? “No. Nothing. I’m sorry. It’s my turn.”

_I like who you are now_. She had said it after he was sure he had driven her away with his torturous withdrawal. He had been ready to accept it if she ended their relationship, he expected it. Instead she gave him acceptance.

Of course. He ought to know. The self is the hardest to forgive, especially when one has been denied a self for so long. And some wounds just never heal. She never speaks of hers, but she does not need to. He has seen it. How she needed to steel herself to approve an assassination, the heavy sigh she learned to suppress whenever she sent scouts and soldiers to their deaths, how her jaw tenses when she is convinced to accept help from the corrupt. The defeat in her eyes when she realized that Solas had betrayed her, and how despite all of it she just wanted her friend back.

He misplaces a rook, and she takes it with her queen. She giggles in glee. Losing on purpose was her strategy, not his. It surprises her pleasantly.

And he realizes it. This is all they can do. Take moments of happiness where they find them. Heal when they are able. And hold each other when they are not.

Still, he has to try. “You could let all of it go, you know.”

“What?” She is confused, naturally. Things like this, she initiates, not he.

“Solas. The Inquisition,” he presses, “everything you’ve done. Everything you could have done. You could let all of it go.”

She realizes what he is doing, and for a moment she refuses to meet his eyes. He knows she had not expected this conversation, least of all in this manner.

“What if I don’t want to?” She looks at him, but speaks so quietly, as if she did not intend to be heard.

And he knows exactly what she means. He has been there. He is still there. “Then let me help you carry it.”

She smiles sadly. “You already carry so much.”

She is not wrong. But neither is he.

He reaches across and takes her hand in both of his. The setting sun lending its warm gold to their skin. “We take care of each other,” he repeats a promise they made to each other long before marriage even entered their minds, “don’t we?”

She recognizes the words, and invokes the answer. “We do.”

When they get back to their match, he loses to her for the first time. But he does not mind.


End file.
